


Darling, So It Goes

by annemarietheduck



Series: Take My Hand [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also I'm bad at tags sry, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxious Enjolras, Combeferre Knows Everything, Combeferre and Courfeyrac fluff, Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, Diva Courf that is, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Good Friend Combeferre, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, He's amazing tbh, Hurt/Comfort, I was angry so i wrote a fic, Joly makes a cameo, Kinda Pining Grantaire, M/M, No happy ending here sorry, Pining Enjolras, Poor Grantaire, SO, Sorry Not Sorry, There's a bit of comfort kind of, What Have I Done, Wow, also, i guess, that's pretty much it, which is weird because they're not even my otp, Éponine is badass as always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 02:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6266293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annemarietheduck/pseuds/annemarietheduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is angry, in love with Grantaire, and not sure what to do with himself. Grantaire doesn't really know what to do with him either. </p><p>Also, Combeferre is an absolutely amazing friend, and Courfeyrac is Courf-ish as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this at like 2 a.m. while sobbing my eyes out, sorry in advance?
> 
> Just an fyi, I've written Enjolras as having anxiety, because I have anxiety--so that's why he acts the way he does, here.
> 
> Also, there may be a sequel coming which is less sad, depending on how I feel about writing fluff
> 
> Let me know of any mistakes you feel I should fix. Kudos/comments make my day!!

Enjolras sits next to Joly in their Socratic seminar-style class called “Political Movements of the 18th Century”, and he listens to Grantaire talk about John Locke, and equality, and unfulfilled governmental promises. He watches the man’s brown eyes sparkle with anger and force, loves how he’s talking about corporate discrimination and even just the abhorrent presence of corporations in the first place. Enjolras doesn’t even have to say anything, Grantaire’s said it all.

So Enjolras waits for him after class, absently telling Joly to go on, taking a million years to do up his bag as Grantaire talks to the professor about something. When he finally leaves, Enjolras is waiting outside the door for him, and he watches Grantaire’s expression shift alarmingly quickly from what looks like surprise to possibly anger to something a little softer around the edges, before it settles on a neutral, if somewhat dazed, look.

They walk together, and the conversation starts out as something leaning toward civil, maybe even friendly. And Enjolras tries. He would be friendly, he really would. It’s just that there’s static that drowns out everything in his brain when it comes to Grantaire, static that makes him snap whenever Grantaire’s voice starts to sound a little bit like a caress, whenever his eyes get that magnified look that make Enjolras feel like he’s falling and Grantaire is the only thing that can catch him, whenever he laughs in that easy way that looks almost like he can’t help it. Enjolras tries, but his brain inevitably feels fuzzy and he’s powerless, and angry.

At any rate, their conversation begins with Enjolras trying to be and feel normal with Grantaire.

“How’re you?” Enjolras asks, and he’s holding a door open for Grantaire. It doesn’t matter where they are on campus or which door it is, only that Grantaire’s walking through it. It’s not an unusual question either, even coming from Enjolras, to Grantaire. They’ve had moments where Grantaire was falling, not the other way around, and in those moments Enjolras wanted—needed—to catch him. Inevitably, too, he’s caught Grantaire, has even helped him up. They keep that raw, distasteful knowledge to themselves. It billows between the two of them like an aching universe.

Grantaire drinks some water from an almost-empty water bottle he’s holding, shrugs at Enjolras behind it. “I’m alright, why do you ask?” But they both know why he asked, and Grantaire shoves a hand in his pocket, eyes pained and confused and large. He pulls his hand indecisively out of his pocket, immediately shoves it back in. It comes out again and settles with a finger hooked around a belt loop, tapping listlessly.  

Enjolras flounders, trying to say something entirely different than what comes out of his mouth. “Seriously, those points you made in class just now were amazing. I kept thinking about how Locke’s ideas have been so misused, and we’ve screwed everything over in the name of equality, and I can’t handle that.” It could almost be what he was trying to say to Grantaire in the first place, the reason he entered this conversation, and that’s what makes it okay.

“I don’t think his ideas have been misused, exactly,” Grantaire says, and sighs. “But people are kinda shit, honestly.” He takes more water, there’s almost none left and Enjolras wonders if he’s trying to refill the bottle with sheer willpower alone. If he is, it isn’t working.

Enjolras could say more on the subject of equality, but he stops himself. He doesn’t know if now is the best time to bring up the shittier aspects of humanity, or the intricacies of enlightenment philosophy, and he’s hazarding a wild guess that it isn’t. So instead he just stammers out, “Thanks for voicing everything, I didn’t know you could do it so well, and it was amazing, thank you.” His words aren’t coming out right, always half-baked, and the familiar burn of a very Enjolrasian kind of anger is washing over him.

Grantaire looks at him, and his eyes look a little lost. His face is turning a weird color, a blush maybe, and Enjolras isn’t sure what to do with his hands. The two men have come to a standstill there in the hallway, and they’re alone, and as the time in between his words and Grantaire’s reaction increases Enjolras looks around wildly, frantically, panicking because this is getting difficult, this is getting awkward. Maybe they could walk somewhere, but where would they walk? There were benches over there, they could sit down?

But then Grantaire is speaking, and he has a lopsided smirk on his face, asking “You didn’t know I could speak so well?”

It’s a challenge, and Enjolras can feel his face burning because he didn’t mean it this way, he honestly just loves how Grantaire had started talking about equality and ended with anti-corporatism, which wasn’t entirely relevant but wasn’t entirely irrelevant.

But Grantaire is still looking at him with that quizzical smirk, a gleam in his eyes like he knows he’s won, and Enjolras can’t help but shoot back: “You’ve never done it before.”

When he realizes that this is actually a kind of mean thing to say, and not actually true, he tries to arrange his face into something that looks open, sarcastic, but he does it a beat too late. Grantaire has already shut down, transformed into the bitter, sharp thing Enjolras only knows too well. The smirk is still on Grantaire’s face, but it’s leering now, aiming to wound and not challenge. “Not like anything you say is phrased better.” It’s a low jab.

And Enjolras has to consider this, because he’s right—Grantaire’s words are as good as (if not better than) Enjolras’, always coated in power and resonance. He cares about people and their own particular warmth more than Enjolras has ever been able to, and it gives his ideas meaning and personality. Enjolras doesn’t know if he wants to steal that ability from him, right out of his pale, calloused hands, or if he just wants to fall into the solidarity he radiates. Either way, it’s not okay, it can’t be okay. Enjolras’ world tilts, and he can’t actually think, just knows that he needs to respond, so he takes a breath, the biggest one he can find considering the small amount of air pooling around him, and starts saying something, anything—

“I don’t know, I try to phrase things in a way that people can understand them. And feel them. And it’s logical. People listen to logical, Grantaire. They don’t listen to you. Your poetry, your music, your painting. It’s so multi-dimensional. You’re so fucking multidimensional, Grantaire. People don’t understand multi-dimensional. It’s stupid in how far away it is, why are you so far away, Grantaire? And then you go and insult _me_ about it?”

Enjolras realizes he has a headache, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying or if it makes any sense anyway, so he keeps going.

“You think people listen to you, Grantaire, you think you have something really good to say, something really witty. But you don’t. Really, it’s nothing, it’s so far away that people stop listening the moment you start talking. They never needed you anyway, Grantaire, I don’t need you.”

And that’s the problem. Enjolras _does_ need Grantaire, and he knows it. But the static in his head is drowning everything else out, and he doesn’t want to think about this, can’t think about this even though he’s trying to be normal with Grantaire. The world aches, his lungs and his eyes ache. Grantaire’s grinning, now, but there’s something hard and sharp in his eyes, a new kind of pain. It makes Enjolras’ palms sweat, and his hands shake. And Grantaire doesn’t even say anything, just looks at him like he’s drowning, and Enjolras doesn’t know what to do. He’s broken something, probably, but he does this a lot, they do this a lot. Instead of saying anything, Grantaire just turns and walks away.

***

Enjolras stands there for a while, watching Grantaire leave. He wishes that the world would stop moving, that the watch on his wrist would stop ticking because it keeps reminding him of the time he’s wasting standing here, the seconds passing through his fingers. Seconds without Grantaire, maybe even just seconds without air.

He doesn’t know what to do, or how to not do anything, so he pulls his phone out of his bag’s front pocket.

He calls Combeferre, because unlike Courfeyrac, Combeferre won’t ask him what’s wrong, will simply wait for him until he’s ready to talk. They plan to have coffee at the Musain in about twenty minutes, and already Enjolras’ hands have stopped shaking. There’s still a dull pain in his chest or stomach—he can’t distinguish between the general heaviness and actual nausea—but it’s easy enough to ignore, to just think towards the coffee and caffeine, his savior. He wanders around campus for a few minutes, waiting for Combeferre, lets himself saunter into the Musain about five minutes early.

And then he stops, because Grantaire is there at the bar on the other side of the room drinking something, and they make eye contact, feeling something charred and heavy and not entirely welcome between them. His gaze burns a wide hole in Enjolras’ blonde composure, eyes dark and a little too vast. He’s smoldering, and Enjolras knows it, seething beneath his depths.

And so Enjolras blandly steps out of the Musain again, deigning to wait outside for Combeferre, but he meets him on the way out.

“Enjolras, hey,” Combeferre says unblinkingly.

“Hey, good to see you, could we not get coffee here actually,” he manages, and it’s not a question, it’s a tribute to how breathless he is, how he feels like his limbs are on fire. And it’s all Grantaire’s fault, every bit of it. But Combeferre isn’t saying anything, only grabs Enjolras’ arm when it looks like he’s all but falling over, steering him out of the little doorway and into the sidewalk or the street, or wherever they are, he isn’t quite sure.

They sit down in a different place that Enjolras doesn’t quite catch the name of, but the menus say boldly **Café Corinth: Carpe Horas** , and the fine print has a translation with commentary: _Seize the hours, my friend, each and every one of them_. Enjolras can’t help feeling a bit mocked, as he sits there glowering while Combeferre orders them coffee. He rambles about his internship at a legal firm and moths and Courfeyrac until, at last, Enjolras feels like he’s able to speak, like actually he needs to speak.

He doesn’t interrupt Combeferre, just waits for a lull in his rambles, and then says it. It’s organic, and necessary.

“Combeferre, I’m in love with Grantaire.”

And there’s so much venom in Enjolras’ words that he surprises even himself.

Combeferre just looks at him evenly. “How long have you known?”

“I’m not sure, I just, we…we fight. And it’s my fault.” It’s a lame answer to Combeferre’s question, if it can even be called an answer, and Enjolras knows it. It’s hard to explain, though. He’s sort of always known, and simultaneously he’s never known, still doesn’t know.

Combeferre looks at him sadly. “Did you say anything awful today?”

“I don’t know? It’s definitely a possibility.”

“Well, do you want a relationship with him?”

Enjolras is helpless. “I don’t know, I don’t…I can’t…That’s. Hard.” He’s stuck thinking about having to go on dates, real dates, and be a decent human being, and say what he actually means instead of what he wishes he meant. Maybe he’d have to go to sleep at normal times, maybe he’d have to actually respond to texts and buy flowers and kiss Grantaire and do other…things. He can’t, and he can’t think much more than this; so he forces himself to focus on his shortened breaths, hand twitching for coffee and closing instead around Combeferre’s hand, who holds Enjolras’ back. And Combeferre actually has the grace to look amused.

“Enjolras, start small,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“Yeah. I’ll just. I’ll finish my coffee, and go, like, apologize. Or something.” He lets go of Combeferre, who still looks amused, and chugs his coffee. Immediately it’s warmth melts some of the tension in him, and he can’t help but breathe more easily.

“What did you say to him, exactly?” Combeferre asks.

“I don’t know, something about how I didn’t need him and no one else did? Wow, that sounds bad.”

“Not a great basis for starting a relationship, probably. Assuming that a relationship is even an option here. It’s workable, though?” Combeferre finishes optimistically.

Enjolras grimaces. “Fuck.” His expletive is well-placed.

 ***

As it turns out, Grantaire isn’t at the Musain when Enjolras gets there, apology ready and a genial-looking Combeferre in tow. So Enjolras decides on the next-best option: going back to the apartment he shares with Courfeyrac to wallow in his own misery. Combeferre tags along.

Courfeyrac’s there when they get there. He doesn’t have class until much later, and he’s lying half-naked on the sofa when they walk in, shamelessly watching “Say Yes to the Dress”. “Hey, Enjolras,” he says absently when they walk in, but then he spots Combeferre. His expression changes, brightening and going slack simultaneously, if that’s even possible. “Combeferre! What’s up!”

Combeferre grins, sits on the end of the couch and explains Enjolras’ revelation while Enjolras looks helplessly on. When Combeferre’s done, Courfeyrac looks a mixture of elated and sympathetic that only he can pull off.

“ _Fantastic_ ,” he says, looking at Enjolras’ stricken face. “You’ve finally admitted it to yourself. Maybe now I can coach you through flirting. Even feelings, if I’m really lucky. But you might actually listen to me now!!”

“Courf…” Enjolras protests weakly, but Courfeyrac’s already launched himself into motion. He pulls on a shirt and turns off the T.V. (“Candace was already about to pick the uglier dress, I don’t wanna watch such horrors.” “Courf, freedom of speech, and I guess by extension choice, or whatever. The first amendment of the United States constitution?” “Who cares about the _United States_ _constitution_ when there was a crime to humanity occurring? Poor Candace, about to spend several thousand on an ugly dress.”). Combeferre has stepped back to avoid the flurry of motion, shoved some instant mac’n’cheese into the microwave. Enjolras, still feeling nauseous, watches Courfeyrac check his phone, grab his laptop, put it all in a bag. “Courf, what exactly are you planning?”

“You’ll see.” He looks at Combeferre, who’s looking at his mac’n’cheese, which is resolutely spinning in the microwave. Courfeyrac saunters over to help him watch his mac’n’cheese cook. Combeferre is blushing, Enjolras notices; he’s also chewing on a thumbnail, which he never does. But then Courfeyrac is smiling at Combeferre in an intimate kind of way, and he’s saying “Combeferre, I uh, I really like you,” and Combeferre is smiling shyly, not at all in the amused grimacing way he was earlier, and he’s tentatively kissing Courfeyrac, who’s standing on his tiptoes to kiss back. When the microwave beeps, they both fall into each other’s arms. Courfeyrac is giggling, Combeferre is opening the microwave and they’re sharing the mac’n’cheese while Courfeyrac asks, “Wanna go on a date with me? Right now. Or, y’know, multiple dates after that. We could be, um, how do the kids say nowadays… _dating_.”

Combeferre giggles, _he downright giggles_ , and Enjolras is incredulous—and he’s even more incredulous when he says yes, because he knows that it’s _possible_ for relationships to happen in real life, for one person to love another person and be reciprocated, but it just seems downright _unreal_. He voices this, to the lovesick mass that’s Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac turns and smirks at him in response, stands up, gently goes over to Enjolras, and says, “Honey, that’s what you need to do with Grantaire. Like, exactly what I just did, except apologize a bunch, too.” Then he adds as an afterthought, “Also, in light of the apologies, don’t get in his personal space unless he gets in yours. Even then, only if you want to. You okay?”

Enjolras thinks mildly that it’s likely he looks as pale as he feels. “Probably? More okay than Grantaire, maybe?” he manages. Courfeyrac smiles sadly at him in response. Looking down at his phone again, he grabs his bag and holds out a hand to Combeferre, who takes it. Combeferre’s looking at Courfeyrac with almost literal stars in his eyes, and as they go through the door of the apartment, presumably for their date, Enjolras realizes that Courfeyrac had deliberately done this in front of him. He’d known what he was doing, packed his bag beforehand in preparation. And this comforts Enjolras, somehow: the realization that he can plan for this sort of thing, he can prepare words to say—it’s ridiculously encouraging.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, sees that Courfeyrac’s texted him.

 **Courf (12:13 pm):** Grantaire’s out with Éponine

 **Courf (12:13 pm):** Éponine has class with Prof. Javert in 15 min

 **Courf (12:13 pm):** they’ll be walking over there

 **Courf (12:13 pm):** go get him, tiger

Enjolras isn’t sure if he should feel exasperated or grateful, so he settles on vaguely amused.

 **Me (12:14 pm):** Courf, did you stalk him? I’m pretty sure that’s not ethical?

 **Courf (12:15 pm):** lol lighten up bby i just asked Éponine what he was doing

 **Courf (12:15 pm):** v ethical just like everything else i do

 **Courf (12:15 pm):** GO GET HIM TIGER

 **Courf (12:15 pm):** Combeferre’s rly hot btw

Enjolras smiles despite himself.

 **Me (12:15 pm):** Gross.

 **Me (12:15 pm):** ;-)

***

Enjolras is nothing if not intense, and for the next fifteen minutes he dedicates his time to figuring out how exactly he’s going to do this, down to where he’s going to stand. He knows where Éponine’s class is, so he walks there, rehearsing words in his head. Grantaire isn’t there when he is, so he does a circuit around the block of buildings.

The air is cold, clouds are shivering above him in the sharp sky; Enjolras feels substantial as he breathes in the chill. The asphalt he’s walking on seems to vibrate in the grey light, and he watches the wind swirl into his hands and out again. It never stops moving, but never really seems to be there either, and it fascinates him.

And then Grantaire is there, walking with Éponine. Her mouth draws into a tight line when she sees Enjolras; she elbows Grantaire, whose expression is unreadable besides looking a little lost. Enjolras watches him look at Éponine, stop walking. They talk quietly together, their glances furtive and, in Éponine’s case, murderous.

Enjolras knows he’s completely baffled by the situation, or maybe just doesn’t want to not be baffled by it. It feels wrong to open his mouth and ruin the windy distance between him and Grantaire.

He does it anyway. “Grantaire, could I. Uh.  Talk to you?” And for once, Enjolras’ question actually is a question, and his words shake through the air until Grantaire is watching him warily, and Éponine’s arm bumps against him in a bit of a blessing. He steps forward, toward Enjolras, and the space between them is clumsy, tentative, charged.

Enjolras knows what he needs to say, knows exactly what he was planning on saying, and he forces a disconnect between his brain and his mouth. The air is numbingly cold, cold enough to dull the throb in his chest suspiciously close to his heart, and he says what he came to say, what he needs to say.

“Grantaire. I’m sorry. I say stupid things because I don’t know how not to. I’m in love with you. So I tell myself I’m not. And that’s not fair.” Even to his own ears, it sounds robotic.

Grantaire scoffs a little bit. There’s something akin to injury in his eyes. Enjolras tries very hard not to notice as the moment stretches out uncomfortably between them. “I think this is the part where you’re supposed to say something,” he adds, pulling at his hair. When the silence becomes even more miserably expansive, he moves to pick at the hem of his jacket instead; it’s more fulfilling, and he doesn’t have to watch Grantaire, doesn’t have to look at his dark eyes contrasting with his light skin.

Eventually, he speaks, and Enjolras realizes why he let the silence grow out so much; because his voice is cracking at the edges, it sounds broken.

“I. Don’t know,” he says, brushing a hand over his eyes, through his hair, and Enjolras can’t look away. There’s a sort of peace he has now, knowing what this feeling is, knowing that Grantaire knows what Enjolras is feeling too. But Grantaire isn’t done. “I’m kind of in love with you too, but this is the last thing I needed you to say to me,” he says, voice quiet and tense.

Enjolras is frozen on the spot, time stopping at the words _I’m kind of in love with you too_ , hope registering several beats too late—but then—oh. “Why?”

Grantaire smiles at him then, and the injury in his eyes turns into something a little smoother, more bittersweet. “Enjolras, God. You’re so hopeful. Were you even listening to what you said to me earlier?” And Enjolras realizes with a jolt that these words are disdainful, and realizes with another jolt that he has to respond to this, has to convey the weird crush of guilt he feels whenever he thinks about interactions he’s had with Grantaire.

He sighs. “I know. I’m never going to be able to forgive myself.” And it’s true.

“I love you, but a relationship between us can never work,” Grantaire says softly. He moves in, and Enjolras has been wanting this closeness with Grantaire, has been wanting to see his dark eyelashes up close and smell the shampoo off his curls, but everything is wrong. There’s a brush of Grantaire’s lips on Enjolras’ cheek and a distinct sense of vertigo as Grantaire walks coldly back toward Éponine, as Enjolras tries not to fall over, as the ground comes closer.

When he touches the asphalt, it’s sharper than the air, and the sting is almost welcome against his palms. He watches the receding forms of Grantaire and Éponine, arms carefully wrapped around each other, and tries to ignore the overwhelming sense of nausea that’s decided to welcome him like an old friend.  

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's ridiculously sad but I love Enjolras and Grantaire too much I had to make them suffer
> 
> This is my first fic, so again, any edits you have or comments in general are definitely welcome <3
> 
> I'm on tumblr as @frosted-paisley, you can come talk to me about my fave barricade boys there, or you can look through my scatterbrained blog if you reeally want to.


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